The Thief Prince's Hostage
by LightingYourDarkness
Summary: Prince Arthur is ambushed in the woods by a mysterious group of outlaws. What is it they want with him? Will friendship be found among surprisingly different people?


Over two dozen of Artair's thieves hid on the peak of the banks that lead down and onto the forest path below. They were hidden, concealed within trees, brushes and forest foliage as they waited patiently for their prey. One of the scouts had noticed the horseback travellers and immediately alerted Artair. It would be the perfect ambush for them to claim prizes and loot for the villages they provided for.

He spotted the travellers drawing closer, the horses walking. It was a small group, all on horseback. From his sight, he could gather that the leader was in front with his bodyguards at the side. Perfect. Anyone with bodyguards would be ideal for stealing and theft; it might they were rich and/or powerful, immediately putting them on their list of potential targets for the Guild. Artair had put in the place that the Guild would /not/ steal from the poor, only from the rich, and that they would provide three-quarters of their prizes to the poor villages. It put the Guild in good favour within the villages, and in return they would give them food, shelter, drinks, clothes and every so often, an odd job or two to earn some extra gold on the side.

Even more silently than the thieves had taken their positions, Artair made a swift hand motion and his men drew their bows, mounting them with arrows. He did the same. The seconds drew out into minutes as the riders grew closer. He waited until the middle of the group was level with him and then gave the signal.

Arrows came flying down onto the travellers but they weren't aimed to kill. Only injury. That was Artair's philosophy; he tried not to kill unless it was necessary. Once the confusion had been put in place, he drew his sword and thundered down the banks, his fellow thieves at his side. The ambush had surrounded the travellers with no means of escape.

Two guards, or ruffians, as it were restrained Arthur, but he quickly aimed both his fists to their noses and knocked them out.

One fluid motion brought his sword into his hand. His eyes scanned the forest floor - every single one of his men, lay either restrained or wounded.

Slowly, cautiously, and a red blush turning to his face Arthur stuck his sword into the soft earth, and put his hands up.

He'd been beaten.

A young man came foreward, and Arthur began to study him with something that was a mix of hostile anger, and unrestrained curiosity.

Words seemed gone. "Who are you?" It was a simple question. Hopefully it merited a simple answer.

It had been easier than Artair could have ever hoped. The travellers had been stormed, disarmed and restrained without a single drop of innocent blood. Looking over the scene, he instructed his thieves to take the spoils whilst he examined the injured of his men. His men were strong but even some of the simplest of wounds could take their tolls in the harsh condition in which the thieves lived. He did his part as a healer before approaching their leader.

He chuckled to himself at the directness and almost bluntess of the man's question. Sarcastic in his man, he took a bow. "Artair Fernson," He said, introducing himself. "Also known as the Prince of Thieves,"

"Prince Arthur of Camelot." Was the brusk reply, as Arthur warily began to eye the men closing down around him. "It would be most kind if you'd let my men go."

His temper was barely checked, and it was only by complete curiosity. Arthur had been nearly certain that the outlaw bands roaming the forest were under control. He'd apparently been wrong.

Darkness was roaming over the clouds, silenced by few albiet brilliant colours lighting the sky. It was a several hours ride back to the city, and his eyes darted back towards the steed that he'd been unhorsed from a few moments ago.

Pleading was below him, but asking for explanations was not.

"May I ask your purpose in treating me so?" Arthur slapped hands away as they began to search him.

Upon hearing the identify of his traveller, Artair looked up. He was a master of concealing his emotions but inside, he felt panic and alarm. Whatever the cost, he tried to keep his men away from royalty, such as Kings and Queens. Nobles were well in the rights of robbing but royalty was something entirely different.

Artair held up a hand sharply, silence his men as he approached the so-called Prince. His hood was still lowered over his face and as he drew closer, squatting down before his prisoner, he lowered it. Carefully, he took hold of the man's face, turning it this way and that with one of his finger-less gloved hands, tilting his head to the side.

Eventually he let go. "You mean to tell me that you are of blood to Uther Pendragon, the _King_ of Camelot?" He said, his voice calm, cool and collected.

"His only son." Arthur jerked himself away. "The heir to the throne." His voice was thinned, and taunt, hard to read. His fingers closed upon the hilt of his sword. The air was thick between them. Silence filled the next few moments. Arthur blinked, trying to control his urge to knock the man out. The only thing that stopped him was the simple, clean cut idea was that he very well may be taken hostage if he did so. This was obviously their leader, and sudden actions merited consequences.

He smirked lightly to himself. A prince, an heir to a throne. Just like Artair, and yet Artair had already taken up his duty as the leader of the Guild, though he had refused the title of 'The King of Thieves'. He still lived in the hope that his parents would return.

He considered his options and examined the injured with fleeting eyes. "Bind their hands," He ordered as he stood back up. "We'll take them back to Tanadel Volpe," With a sharp click of his fingers and another swift hand motion, some of his men collected the reins of the horses whilst others went about binding the hands of their prisoners. Artair on the other hand, spoke in hushed tones to one of his best thieves on how to get back to their Sanctuary without drawing too much unwanted attention.

"You will regret this." Arthur muttered angrily, his blue eyes shooting daggers at the other man that faced him. "My father will not take this lightly." Two ropes were bound around his wrists, and his sword was quickly pulled from the ground, and taken from his reach. The dagger he wore on his belt was taken as well. He stood silently fuming, until someone reached for the ring on his finger. "No!" His mouth had not been gagged, so freedom of speech was still given to him. "It was given to me, by a...friend." By Guinevere. But that he did not state. They could be capable of anything, and taking captives from the village Arthur would not put past them.

Artair shook his head at the thief who reached for the Prince's ring. It seemed to hold sort of sentimental value to him and for that, he would keep it. They were thieves but they were not heartless. Once everything had been collected, a sack was placed over the heads of their captives and then they were guided through the forest. The thieves, who had grown up in the wild, moved silently like mighty predators. Their steps, though quick, were precise and thought through at every second.

Artair lead them for nearing onto an hour until they reached a stream and they begun to follow it, eventually reaching a waterfall. They stepped round the side of it and crept beneath the lashing water as it collided with the rocks. Behind the Falls, was Tanadel Volpe: the Den of the Fox. It was here where Artair gave more hand motions and gestures to his men who separated off to do their own faction. One man handed the Prince over to Artair and he lead him deeper into the cavern.

Once they had reached Artair's chambers, he removed the bag from his head and squatted down before him. "You ought to be more careful, your Majesty," He said, smiling softly. He begun to examine the Prince's wounds.

"Careful is not my choice adjective." Arthur said sharply, and bit back an angrier reply. Surely the better he behaved, the sooner he'd be realised.

His sword. He felt lost without it hanging by his side. He felt bared, and exposed. It was not natural that he should feel so imprisoned.

The road through the forest had been hours long, and having a cotton bag over his head didn't make it anymore comfortable.

Arthur turned his hands left, and right, and left again trying to release his bonds from his wrists. The skin was raw and red by now, after the repition. The cords had turned a blood-stained crimson.

His gaze turned towards the window on his left. Diamond stars twinkled in a midnight sky. His father would be looking for him.

"You should never have done this." Arthur said quietly. "It is a crime against Camelot."

Yet, as he waited for the reply, he wondered. Just what were they looking for?

Artair looked down at his hands and frowned. Having risen his hood as they travelled, he lowered it once again and pulled out a small dagger, cutting the binds free. He then retrieved a bowl and cloth and begun to cleanse the wounds. "Oh?" He said. "Would you rather have been left out in the harsh weather for dead?" He smirked. "I never meant you harm, Arthur Pendragon," He continued cleansing the wounds before wrapping them in bandages to protect from infection.

He then moved his cloth to the Prince's forehead and begun to clean the head wounds there. "I often try not to spill innocent blood," He explained. "It's not at all good for business," He chuckled. He was playing the two-faced stranger card, where one would not be able to place if he was being serious or if he was fooling.

"I don't need your help." Arthur pulled the cloth away from his face. After all, it was because of the man standing before him he was in such a mess.

He'd escaped imprissonment many times. But escaping with a dozen wounded guards to rescue was a completely different story.

There wasn't much Arthur could do but wait, and watch. By daybreak the entire country would be swarming with men searching for their lost Prince.

He thought about his father - how weak, and fragile he'd been lately. 'This would kill him,' Arthur thought. 'Somehow, I have to get out of here.'

It wouldn't be easy, seeing as he'd been basically bound and gagged upon his entrance to the fort. But Arthur could have sworn he'd heard a loud, roaring noise just before the silence. Water.

They had to be in the Southern Borders by now. Nearly 100 miles from Camelot.

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